Sorath
by Kako Koritsi
Summary: Co-written with HubrisP. Dean Winchester was a man of luck, having survived as long as he had, having been returned to life more times than he could count. But he never considered himself special, part of a grand plan to change the balance of power in creation forever, even in his new demonic rebirth. Dicontinued, but makes a nice drabble.


Something was not right.

There was a certain change in the planes of Hell, as if the screams turned a little bit quieter and the darkness a little more dark. The scent of blood wafted through his dulled over senses, tasting coppery on his tongue, feeling rough as it slid down his sore throat. His battered body shivered and shook against the chains that restricted it, heart beating faster in his chest with the sudden rush of fear. Yes, something was definitely wrong. And whatever it was, it was heading straight for him.

Sometimes Alastair was above him and sometimes Alastair wasn't, but when he was, it made the most horrible emotions invade his mind. Always with that shiny knife that cut into his flesh, shaving off the skin and carving symbols with crimson. Those inhuman features had never stopped haunting him at every second, filling the gaps in his memory with panic along with the cracks in his heart. But this, this wasn't his torturer. This thing didn't feel like a demon, almost felt pure, pure like the whispers in the back of his mind.

He would occasionally hear a voice, drifting over the thoughts of _help me help me help me Sammy_ , so small yet so strong. It sounded like release, it sounded like family and happiness and all the other things he had lost, and he had clung to that during the time he had been here. This presence was like that, calming his shouts and desperation, but it wasn't the same. It was... tainted.

Tainted?

His train of thought was lost to the wind at the brush of a finger against his cheek, warm unlike the cold demeanor of Hell and cooling unlike its burning heat. His eyes were wide open but he couldn't see, just another thing that had been taken from him. It was always scarier not knowing where the strike would come from, but perhaps it would be even worse to see the Pit for what it truly was, so he didn't complain. It had been so long since he had felt the sensation of skin against his. Alastair was always careful not to touch, hot breath ghosting over sweat-coated features and taunts thrown at every swipe of the blade. But this gesture was so gentle, so soft, and another whisper made it's way to the surface of his subconscious; _righteous_.

The feeling disappeared, smooth caress becoming the tiniest gust of wind along his face. He missed it was soon as it was gone, treasuring the break away from constant pain for as long as it would be allowed to last. The words spoken were not in the harsh tones of Alastair or the pureness of the whispers in his mind; they were coated with a new voice, seductive and mocking, and he realized that the presence had reached him now.

" _Dean Winchester_ ," it murmured, nearly impressed and completely amused, but he didn't dare interrupt. " _Out of all the souls down here, yours shines the brightest_."

He didn't know he had a soul anymore. Dean had thought that it had been lost a long time ago, sinking under the waves of constant pain and internal pounding of his heart. If it was there, surely it wasn't bright. If it was there, than it was just as tainted as the presence above him.

Wisps of light and tendrils of darkness hardened into a human structure once more, something he wished he could see for himself. Dean knew that this power only did this out of courtesy, that it could destroy him with a single push of will, and maybe that's what had kept him quiet. Another sensation, cheek against his own, lips sliding over the outline of his jaw. There was the teasing smile that drifted along flesh, imprinting its shape in the dark purple bruises that bloomed along his body. Teeth nibbled at his earlobe, as if to bring back pleasures that he had given away long ago. Nothing stirred in his gut like it used to, no warmness in his chest or the tingling beginnings of ecstasy, but he still leaned into the feeling nonetheless.

The voice came again, but it had an edge of anxiousness to it, a tint of expectation. The words that came was a suggestion that Dean knew not to refuse. " _You should open those pretty eyes of yours. Better to see me that way_." He didn't know what difference that would make but he didn't care either, lips pressing against his own in a sort of promise for more.

Dean's eyelids drifted open, and for once he saw it all. But the first thing he noticed were those irises, crudely carved into a misshapen face, holding no color, holding no emotion. The were plastered above a mouth stretched into a horrid smile, and the wing that cupped his body was full and white unlike its rotten and withering counterpart. He didn't know what he was seeing but he did know he would never comprehend it, never comprehend its raw power and energy.

It was beautiful.


End file.
